Float Like a Butterfly
by Denny Crane
Summary: Postep for Squid Pro Quo. Alan's smarting.


"Shall we go?"

"You go, Denny. I'll be along."

"It's raining."

"Yes."

Denny eyed Alan curiously. It had been months since they'd gone home separately. Usually they simply left the terrace and walked or rode to Denny's together. But not tonight. Denny shrugged. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe it _was_ Alan's time of the month.

"Okay, then, see you."

"Yes."

One more look at Alan, and Denny left.

For his part, Alan breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to be alone. Denny's presence only rubbed salt in the wounds he'd received these past few days. Wounds he somehow knew were illogical to be sporting, yet wounds he was unable to simply ignore as superficial and ridiculous.

Damn the whole thing, anyway.

"_You're jealous of my son."_

"Gee, Denny, you think?" Alan said quietly as he drained his glass of Scotch. Float like a butterfly, always hovering in Denny's sphere, Denny always hovering just out of reach. Wings beating in beautiful time, an ageless dance around one another. Float like a butterfly…sting like a bee. Alan considered himself stung.

They're chairing together, like so many times before. Fundamentally, Alan disagrees with the United States of America this time, but he'll sit at Denny's side like always. Besides, he knows he's there more for support than anything. Sure, when Denny stands up in a courtroom, he _is_ Denny Crane. The problem is that Denny Crane is faltering, and from Alan's point-of-view anyway, Denny needs him there simply to focus. He'd always considered it was Denny wanting to impress him, but now he thinks perhaps he was wrong.

Denny was all about impressing his son-turned-not-son-turned-son…whatever Donny was. And though from one standpoint Alan could see that, and it made sense, somehow it also made him feel terribly like a third wheel. The way Denny _looked_ at Donny right before court, and throughout the proceeding. And his own words, unspoken yet on the edge of his tongue, had confirmed as much.

_He needed me_, Alan thought. _He needed me for the closing, but only because he didn't want to look stupid in front of Donny._ And that, for Alan, was the crux of things. Christ, he and Denny said things all the time that, to less caustic friends, would cause continual rifts and most likely the eventual breakup of the friendship altogether. But they were who they were. It was one of the reasons they fit so well together. They understood their similarities and indeed relished the fact that there was another soul to connect to who innately comprehended the who's, what's, why's and how's of what they were.

And so, Alan thought, it's jealousy. Imagine being jealous of a boy. A mere boy, young enough to be even _his_ son, let alone Denny's. And yet again he reminded himself _he_ was young enough to be Denny's son, too. 28 years younger. He could almost hear Denny say, _I was practicing law before you were even born!_ And of course, Denny would be right. Being jealous of a boy.

A boy.

"_That's my boy."_

That final sentence had really just rubbed it in even further. Alan was tired of being thought of as a son…as a boy. He wanted…no, he _needed_…for Denny to see him as the equal he was. Who cared about the 28 years? It meant nothing. They were kindred spirits, alike in so many ways it was positively frightening that two of them could exist in the same universe without causing an implosion, let alone the same city…let alone the same law firm.

"_I'm your friend, not your boy."_

Had those words gotten through to the great Denny Crane? Probably not. Everything was about him. _His_ need to remain undefeated. _His_ reputation. _His_ son. _His_ case. _His_ closing.

"_If I wrote it and delivered it, how did it become your closing?"_

Alan knew it was petty. And yet somehow, it _wasn't_ petty.

"_I don't need you, Alan. I don't need anybody. Never have. Never will."_

Any other time, Alan would easily have chalked those words up to the vain Denny Crane needing to keep himself puffed up in his own mind, needing to maintain the illusion of Denny Crane. Any other time, the words would've rolled like water off a duck's back, and Alan probably wouldn't have given them a moment's thought. But this time they hurt.

Sting like a bee.

This time, they stung. He'd been pleased as punch when Denny had, for all intents and purposes, come crawling back to him asking for his help. Saying he _did_ need him. Yeah, he needed him. Needed him to not look stupid in front of Donny. It could never be as obvious as, "I was wrong, Alan. I _do_ need you." Of course not, that's not the Crane way. And truly, it wasn't really what Alan was looking for anyway. Just saying he'd needed him to do the closing would have sufficed, but no, Denny had taken it a step further by almost saying _why_. Because of his son.

Who wasn't really his son.

Damn them both.

He was weary and decided it was time to head home. He had to give a little snicker as he thought about what home was. Home was Denny's place. Home was Denny's food, Denny's shower, Denny's bed. For the first time in more months than he could remember, though, Alan suddenly felt himself wishing he wasn't living with Denny Crane. And yet the idea of returning to his hotel room which, of course, was _not_ being bombarded with sounds of renovations, made him cold. In spite of being stung, he still wanted to be near him. In spite of the wounds, he still wanted the man who'd put them there.

_It's official. I'm a masochist._

He sighed and headed for his office to grab his overcoat. "You're sick, Alan," he mumbled as he put it on. "Sick."

* * *

When he opened the front door, he was surprised to find it completely dark inside. There wasn't a single light on, not even a tiny table lamp. Cocking his head in curiosity, Alan moved to flip on the light switch nearest the door. A low rumbling "Don't." stopped the movement of his hand. Without asking questions, he shrugged his coat off and placed it on the coat rack before closing and locking the door behind him.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and proceeded to remove his tie, tossing it on the long table behind the couch upon which Denny sat. Outside the thunder clapped loudly, his only glimpses of the living room came when lightning flashed. Denny was just sitting there. No drink. No cigar. He was wearing a pair of silk pajamas, simply staring off into space. Alan moved around the couch to stand in front of it, studying Denny's face whenever the lightning allowed.

Outside the storm raged. Reflecting, somehow, the storm raging _in_side as well.

He didn't want to talk to Denny. Not right now. All he wanted to do was fall into bed and curse himself for about an hour for letting himself be this affected by someone after he vowed he never would again. It didn't pay to get involved with someone like himself, and Denny was far too much like himself in so many ways. Yet beneath it all, Alan _did_ love. And in spite of his professions, Alan had to wonder if Denny was capable. If he was, he sure had a damn funny way of showing it. He turned to head for the bedroom.

"Alan."

He stopped, but didn't turn around. "Denny."

"I wasn't sure you were coming home tonight." At this, Alan turned back to face him. There were several moments of silence, lightning illuminating the room four times. "I'm glad you did."

Alan nodded and turned away again.

"What's eating you?"

_Oh, shit_, Alan thought. _He just had to bring it up._

"Whatever do you mean, Denny?" Alan asked, his face carefully neutral as he took a few steps back toward Denny.

"It really _is_ your time of month, isn't it? You're…moody."

"I'm moody."

"Yes. It's like having a wife."

Sting like a bee.

"A wife. Really." Alan stared at him. "Are you sure it isn't more like having a son?"

Denny looked up at him. Flashing, flashing, lightning flashing in his hazel eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You used to call me son, Denny. And then tonight, you called me your _boy_."

Denny shrugged. "You're younger than I am. It's a habit."

Alan didn't want to continue the conversation. And yet he couldn't just let it drop. He couldn't. It stung too damn much. "And is it a habit to use me when you need me, all the while telling me you _don't_ need me, all the while ignoring the fact that if I disappeared from your life you would fail?"

Denny's eyes widened in anger as he rose to his feet. He took two steps nearer to Alan. "_Fail_?" he spat. "Denny Crane never fails."

"Cut the bullshit, Denny. Your case was going badly. _Very_ badly. You came back to me, hat in hand, after telling me you didn't me or anyone else. Why, Denny?"

"Hot fudge sundae—"

"Bullshit."

Denny moved closer to him until they were standing so close they could feel each other's heat. "Let me tell you something, Alan Shore. Denny Crane has never needed anything or anyone."

"Yet for some reason, you _do_ need now. Maybe because of age, maybe because of your mental health. But you need to impress your son. And you need me to anchor you."

"I don't."

"You do. And quite frankly I'm always going to be willing to be that anchor." Alan's face softened as the flashes of light continued around them. "But I'm your equal, Denny. I'm not your son. I'm not your boy."

"You're my friend."

"I'd like to be. But you…" Alan looked away, very much aware that he _was_ sounding like a neglected wife, but unable to reason any other way to sound. He was hurt, there was no two ways about it. Irrational? Perhaps. But real. "It was _my_ closing, Denny. My closing that won that case. You know it as well as I do. I don't _care_, really, not about the closing."

"Then what _do_ you care about?"

"_You_. In spite of yourself." Alan sighed in frustration and shook his head, whirling to head to the bedroom again. He was surprised by the hand on his arm that stopped him.

"Alan…"

"What?" he asked, not turning around.

"Do you know why I wear this ring?"

Alan turned back and looked at the left hand being held up, fourth finger being prominently displayed. "To make yourself more desirable to women?"

Denny smiled slightly. "Maybe a little. But that's not the real reason."

"What, do you consider us married?"

"Aren't we, in a way? We…live together. We…share a bed, whatever the reason. We…fight…like a married couple."

"Yes, except in this relationship there's never an opportunity to kiss and make up."

"You know I don't drive that kind of car," Denny replied, lowering his eyes and letting his hand fall to his side.

"Denny, you don't have to drive a car to appreciate it." This time, when Alan moved toward the bedroom, Denny didn't stop him.

Dance around the issue. Float like a butterfly. See the look of hurt in Denny's eyes. Sting like a bee.


End file.
